


Losing The Battle Against Tooth And Claw

by angel1876



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Birds, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Eye Trauma, F/M, Giant Spiders, Gore, Horror, M/M, Spiders, Torture, Vore, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel1876/pseuds/angel1876
Summary: A series of scenes in which Wilson finds himself in the most unfortunate situation of being eaten by various inhabitants of the island. And I don't mean in a way that the scientist would enjoy, I mean actually being eaten.Warning for graphic details of gore and death within.





	1. The Dark Of The Night

Wilson knew he wasn't going to make it. 

It was a stupid mistake. A mistake one would have expected to happen during the first night, not the middle of his third year. Left camp intending to be home well before nightfall, didn't bring a torch. He hadn't realized how low the sun had crept down until the harsh, direct rays disappeared over the horizon. Not yet dark, but close enough that the world was cast in shadow. 

So focused on mining, he'd not thought anything of it. but when he'd moved to make a fireplace to keep mining by...

He needed to get off the rocky part of the island, back to the grassland where he could find the supplies he needed to create his own light. The man had taken off like a shot, thin, agile, and used to both fight and flight. 

Darkness followed him, deceptively slow, yet faster than his legs could carry him. His surroundings eased into grays that dimmed more and more. Unable to see the uneven patch of ground in front of him, he tripped, hitting he sharp rocks below him with a pained yelp. Struggling onward, his mind rushing several miles ahead of him. At this rate, it would take another twenty minutes to reach his goal. 

Something behind him growled. Movement, the thud of a heavy limb smacking the ground off to one side, and then a clawed hand latched around his ankle. 

Wilson screamed as he fell a second time, the ground digging into his open wounds, the thing dragging him back by his leg. It held him tight, a vice grip that left no chance of escape. Sight was lost to him, the moon above far too dim to offer any assistance, but he didn't need to see to feel the size of the creature above him. Fingers tore helplessly at the ground, his legs kicking up dirt as he tried to keep going, but another hand grabbed at him, and another, and another. Too many hands for his panicked mind to count, rolling him over onto his back and pinning him down. 

The beast above let out a breath that ghosted over his prone form, hot and wet and rattling like death. It licked it's chops, the sound bringing canine images, a long snout filled with drool and teeth. 

Unable to move, he could only stare up into the abyss, his breath quick and shallow, every muscle tensed, his body singing with terror. Fingers slipped between cloth and flesh, pulling open his jacket, struggling with the front, and then finally tearing the thing in frustration. He squealed at the noise, the jerking motion, his skin so suddenly and completely exposed.

The flat edge of a cold nose pressed into the curve of his belly, and he whimpered, feeling the rush of air as the thing took several good, long sniffs. Taking in his scent, not sniffing out of curiosity, but enjoyment. He was bleeding, and it was savoring that. 

Heat replaced the cold, a thick tongue lulling out to lap from his stomach up toward his chest. That itself told him how big those jaws must be, big enough to snap his head off if it so chose. But it wouldn't. No, it was after the good parts. It wasn't interested in crunching up bone, it wanted something soft.

Wilson cried out as it licked him again, bucking his hips, thrashing with every ounce of strength he had, but it only tightened it's grip. It pressed him into the ground, held him still as it's tongue slowly swiped over his wounds. Open cuts stung and burned at the assault, only to be licked over again, more blood coaxed out from the pressure. It took it's time, drew the moment out, confident that its prey wasn't going anywhere.

The tongue vanished, the wet smack of lips sending a thrill of dread though him. He shuddered, straining, and then froze as he felt a very different pressure came down on his belly. The flat side of fangs rested against him, big, smooth, accompanied with an exhale of breath.

"N-no! No, no please, please no...no...Maxwell! Maxwell, please!"

His fear overwhelming, to the point tears pricked at his eyes, his brain reflexively trying to flush some of it out. No plea he uttered went answered, and nothing came to stop the creature from slowly, slowly, opening its jaws, and sinking its teeth into him.

A scream tore though his throat. With one bite, the thing had taken hold of much of the flesh protecting his insides from the outside. Without once picking up speed, it pulled back, just as slow, and tore that chunk of meat off of him. Pain flared through his core, his stomach cavity open, blood spilling into the wound, gathering in the pit left behind.

It chewed its bite, chewed and threw its head back to swallow, then lowered it's maw once more.

The muzzle of the beast dipped down into the wound, slurping, sucking noises mixed into his cries as it lapped up the blood. Licking over internal organs, the force enough to move them about, his intestines pulled upwards toward his chest. 

For a long time, that was all it did. The sides of it's mouth opened and closed with each lick, rubbing up against the edges of the gaping hole, the greedy tongue moving deeper inside of him in search for blood. 

The struggling wore him down, dragged his movements until he was all but still, the sound of the thing mouthing the inner wall of his stomach cavity the only thing he could focus on. Horror and shock battled with one another, and maybe if he held still long enough, it would loose interest and leave. 

Not that being left to his own devices would help him in the slightest at this point. 

It might have been the silence that spurred it on, or maybe it was the ease in blood flow. Maybe it just got bored. The creature opened up its jaw once more, and it bit down, bit down hard, then pulled back. In one, huge mouthful, it had emptied him. Agony brought fourth another screech, the noise hardly human.

Wilson took in great lungfuls of air, not able to get in quite enough, and something dull eased around the edges. The pain stared to ease, a blanket of fuzz creeping in to fog his mind. 

He heard it swallow. Felt it lower it's head. His own fell back, chest rising and falling in shaky gasps, not able to move, to think as the sound of heavy lapping started up again. It licked over the raw meat, down over his spine and at the open spots where his organs used to connect, over thick veins that had been nicked in that last bite, giving it the blood it so wanted.

He could still hear it licking him as the darkness finally overcame everything else.

 


	2. Thrown To The Wolves

Wilson clutched the egg in his arms, hunger driving him to hold tight despite the tall birds assault. Sharp pain spiked through his shoulders, the beak digging through cloth and skin to spear the soft flesh underneath. He tripped, wound up on his back, just narrowly avoiding a blow to the neck. Kicking at the mothers feet, he used her own weight to push himself far enough away to allow him to stand. Turning from her, he made to run, only to freeze in his tracks at the sight of the cliff edge in front of him. He’d no idea he’d come so close. Before he could find another path to take, the bird hit him hard in the back, tearing out a chunk of both jacket and meat. He felt more then heard its beak grind against bone, nicking one of his ribs right by where it curved into his spine, and then the bird was gone, the ground separated from his feet, and he fell off the ledge.

For several terrifying seconds, he fell, the air rushing past him, mingling with the sound of his scream. A flash of green, the prick of thin branches whipping by him, he didn't realize there was a forest waiting beneath until he was already past the trees. His body smacked hard against the ground, the grass offering little in the ways of cushion.

It took several seconds for him to manage a breath. It came slowly, a shuddering wheeze, the force of impact enough to leave him more than a little stunned. Wilson lay there, waiting for the full body ache to ease. Not go away completely, hell no, a fall like that is going to leave a good deal of bruising. He was going to be feeling this for a good few weeks after this. 

When he regained himself, he moved to push against the ground, shaky arms holding his weight. Air slipped in between chest and grass, and he felt both very dirty and very wet. A shudder of disgust went through him as he noticed the thick, sticky goo and bits of shell that stuck to his vest. There went the egg he was trying to get, no chance of eating it now.

He brushed a hand over his front, trying to get some of it off, even if there was little point in that. Looks like he'd need to visit the river next. Couldn't go wandering around covered in this stuff, the smell would attract predators. 

Up on his feet, he looked around, meaning to take stock of his surroundings...

And found a good dozen pairs of eyes staring at him. He'd fallen directly into the middle of a resting hunting party.

The wolves of the island were different than the wolves of Earth. First and foremost, they were massive. Beasts of power and muscle hidden under sleek fur and a cunning eye. They were big enough that their shoulders came up to his chest.

Not a one of them growled, he realized, a panicked flash echoing through his head, forcing itself past his dumbfounded shock. They always growled, they snarled and ganged up on him, they went for him with singular intent, they aimed to rip him to shreds as quickly as possible. They didn't do that this time.

Bushy, furry tails wagged, and one by one, they stood up, full attention focused on the one elusive prey that's avoided the deadly bite of their teeth for years. They had a playful air about them, almost like they were mocking him. Eyes shifted from the scientist to glance at one another, mouths lulling open to pant. 

They didn't rush at him because they didn't need to. Wilson stood before them with no weapon, his spear broken by the tall bird, injured and caught too weak to run. 

Didn't stop him from trying. He turned and bolted, barely making it five steps before one of them intercepted him. Stepped between him and the escape route, letting out a bark, it's ears perked. Recoiling, Wilson turned and went the other way, only to be cut off again. His heart pounded with fear, a deep thudding that pulsed in the back of his head. Fingers curled for want of a weapon that wasn't there.

A set of teeth nipped harmlessly at his clothes, prompting a cry. He jerked out of the wolf's reach, only to have another mouth clamp down hard on his vest, paws digging into the ground, pulling against him with enough force to bring the man to the ground. Once he was down, it let go, danced away and let him pull himself back up. 

He could climb a tree, he thought, if he was fast enough. Climb a tree and get out of their reach, wait for them to get tired. But they wouldn't let him, seemed to guess his intention the moment he made for a low hanging branch. Again, he was knocked down, great heavy paws pressing into him, pinning him, letting him struggle and kick and writhe before retreating.

They barked at him, prancing, circling, more of the animals joining in. One bit into his vest again, another grabbing the opposite side with so much enthusiasm it nicked his stomach. Blood flowed easily to the wound, the flesh already bruised, the liquid encouraged by his rushing pulse.

The vest tore as Wilson found himself being jostled back and fourth. While these two fought over his quickly disintegrating vest, another pair jumped in, their focus on the shirt underneath, the fabric much thinner and much easier to tear.

He bat at their noses, tried to aim scratches for their eyes, but there were too many, moving too fast, as soon as he got purchase of one they had him turned around.

Something in the cloth covering him gave, and he found himself free, the little group focused on what remained of his clothes. Legs trembling, he made another attempt to run. But there were other wolves, other wolves that continued to cut him off, and when he was distracted with them, one of them approached from behind. The bite was harsh, curved teeth dug through the cloth of his pants and into the tender flesh of a rear cheek. He squealed, the animal pulling back, dragging him with it as it walked over to the opposite end of the clearing, its pack mates following. With a quick motion, it threw him into the air, let him fall back to land face down.

A heavy tongue lapped at the bleeding wound it'd just made, saliva and blood mixing over his rear, as another licked at his upper shoulders. The flat edge of fangs brushed softly over the punctures left from the bird, nipping, the suggestion of pulling off flesh without the reality of it. Not yet.

Wilson pushed himself against the ground, desperate for anything that might save him. A tree, right, get to a tree, he needed to-

Again, teeth bit down, this time on his inner leg, while the other wolf's paw pressed in on his back, holding him down in place so the animal could continue lapping and mouthing at his shoulders. Yapping with playful energy, two more wolves bounced around him, until one dipped its head down to grab at one arm, its partner taking hold of the opposite limb.

He could do nothing more then shriek, his one free leg kicking out without effect, the two animals holding each arm firm and pulling hard. Blood welled as teeth clicked and scraped against bone, his shoulders forced apart and then back, the weight of the wolf above him keeping his body down while his arms were forced upward. The force of their pulling was unimaginable, pulling, pulling until the joints gave way, until with a quick succession of snaps his shoulders both popped out of place. Fire shot down his arms and into his back, spiking down his spine, the sensation drowning out everything else. He felt the flesh of his thigh pulled away, the tugging of a muzzle trying to separate its morsel from the scraps of his pants that had come with it, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his upper body. 

They didn't stop there, they kept tugging, until ligaments and muscle started to stretch and break, until he couldn't feel anything in his hands anymore and he was sure somewhere between the bite of their teeth and the relentless pulling, they'd managed to damage the nerve endings to the point of misfire. Little growls bubbled up between his screams, tails still wagging.

The wolf down by his lower back shifted, nosing the open wound in his upper leg. Turning its head, the wolf started to gnaw at him, a wet chewing sound as it slowly peeled away bits of flesh.

Up by his shoulders, that wolf did the same, finally bored with licking and nibbling, it bit into him with earnest. Bit and tugged out the skin until it gave, leaving the bone of his spine and the surrounding muscle and fat exposed. 

Back and fourth the wolves at his arms pulled, but neither of them could manage to get him out of the other's grip, not until the wolves that had been playing with his clothes grew bored and returned to the group around him. One joined the other at his legs, flopping down hard and biting into his calf. The two that were playing tug-of-war dropped him as they were interrupted, a short fight breaking out, started by others that wanted a go at him.

Though his arms were free, there was no moving them. He couldn't even twitch his fingers, the effort to do so only bringing him more pain. Wilson lay there, face pressed into the dirt, mouth open and throat sore, trembling, feeling himself be pulled apart bit by bit. Distantly, he was aware of dirt and grass against his tongue, bitter and damp.

Yet another wolf stood at his head, cold nose and warm breath ghosting over his hair, licking the top of his head, then down, down to the back of his neck. He whimpered, tried to move back, and failed. Teeth bit down, digging deep, a weak protest going unheeded, and the animal pulled, dragging him several inches, upsetting the three above him. They grabbed onto his legs, one grabbed onto the soft, sensitive flesh of his upper arm, and all four of them pulled. 

Abruptly, all sensation cut off, and the world went dark, his neck snapped from the pressure. 


	3. Down The Rabbit Hole

The scientist didn't know how he managed to get himself into these situations. He couldn't even blame this one on Maxwell. Hell, he'd probably reached the point where Maxwell was just as baffled by the situation as he himself was. 

It had started simply enough. He was hungry, he had some extra vegetables, and he'd thought he'd treat himself to some rabbet stew while the weather was still warm and he could enjoy things without huddling to his fire pit. Set up a trap over a burrow, put a bite of carrot underneath, all very routine things. 

The next thing he knew, he'd landed face first onto the trap. Being made of straw, it gave easily under his weight, caving inward to let him fall through. Of course, he'd fallen through into the hole underneath. The straw had gone with him, parting around his face to encircle his neck, and the ground gave from the force of his body slamming into it, head and straw both digging in only to be locked into place by the weight of the dirt. The ruined trap wouldn't budge, not from around his neck, and not from the hole in which he was now stuck in.

Everything was darkness, the sun burned against his back. Wilson was well and truly stuck in a rabbit's burrow, and he could only sit there and contemplate the choices he'd made that led him up to this point.

That was, until he heard something very close to his head thump.

He blinked, eyes straining, but he couldn't see what was shifting about in front of him. Confused, slightly curious, he listened and waited. Another series of thumps. Then, a chatter, a growl. Tiny and irritable and oddly familiar...

Because he'd heard these creatures scream upon death or fear.

One of the rabbits. Yes, he should have realized, it was a rabbit hole, after all, although he didn't quite understand why it wasn't hiding...

Thump. Growl. And then the barest prick of teeth and fur, a nip to his chin, a warning.

Oh. Oh wait, no. Were rabbits territorial? 

The chattering suddenly sounded quite a deal more threatening, and with a yelp, pulled against the trap harder, scrambling back, but there was no give. His hands dug uselessly into the dirt, his legs had no real purchase, and in the darkness, the rabbit grew both more restless and more daring in its anger.

Long and flat teeth found the curve of his chin, digging in, drawing out a squeal of pain. The rabbit held nothing back, not running from him as it would flee a predator but attacking him as an intruder to its home. He had the power above ground, but here, he couldn't do a damn thing to it. His flesh gave, the bite feeling for all the world like a strong pinch. Rabbits weren't made to hunt like wolves were, which meant the bite was delivered with a dull point, blunt edges pushed so harshly against him that they tore.

His squealing turned into a scream when both sets of teeth met bone, slid down toward each other, until they met. The rabbit didn't pull the chunk out, no, it opened its mouth again, and aimed another bite, this one hitting him in the center of his cheek. No bone there, just muscle and fat, and nothing to stop it from digging all the way through, until the inside of his cheek was pierced from the outside and blood poured into his mouth.

Wilson thrashed, pushing against the ground, then half collapsed, his hands digging at the surroundings of the hole, desperately trying to free himself. He dug his fingers into the straw that held him in place, the remains of the trap both too strong to let him free, but not strong enough for him to grip hard enough that he could pull free. 

Pain flared through the side of his face, another angry bite to his already wounded cheek deep enough to nick the side of his tongue. He instinctively tried to shake his head, to move away, to get distance between them, anything to stop another bite, but he wasn't granted so much as an inch. Somewhere inside of his face, a nerve was severed, drawing out a wail as the sensation stabbed through him and into his very being.

For a moment, for a blissful moment, the bites stopped. Just long enough for his panicked, rushing thoughts to hope perhaps that the noise he was making finally scared it off.

And then something long, and sharp, and very much not a tooth, slammed into him.

The _horns._

These rabbits has spiked horns coming from the top of their heads, like deer, and the creature in front of him racked those horns against his soft skin. The curved end caught on the hole in his cheek, and ripped it outward, through to the corner of his lips, the meat flapping off to the side and leaving the inside of his mouth exposed.

The next blow caught on his upper lip, a large strip of flesh torn away.

Wilson cried out, his eyes watering, saliva dripping down his ruined mouth, his breath quick and shallow, loud enough that he couldn't hear the rabbit chattering still, and...

And the hole gave. With a pop that wasn't nearly as painful as the mess his face had become, he pulled away and scrambled back, a hand raised to push his dangling cheek back into place, only to cringe because it hurt far too much to touch.

The bloody, still pissed off rabbit followed him, charged at him, growling all the while. Wilson turned tail and ran back to camp. 


	4. Can't Fight The Moonlight

At the very least, he wouldn't have to deal with the night monster tonight.

Weeks had passed since a rather unfortunate disaster with one of his rabbit traps, and Wilson wasn't faring much better than he had that day. The entire side of his face was a throbbing, painful mess, his cheek held together with silk bandages lined with honey. Honey kept the wound clean, it wasn't infected, the problem was the fact that he had no access to needles, and thus no way to stitch the thing shut so it could heal properly. 

It was still open, still raw, and it hurt more than it did when he'd first been attacked. Time was not kind to such things. 

A breathy sigh left him as he walked the forest, seeking out one of the spider webs he knew to be in the area. His spear clutched in one hand, ready for battle. Not only did he need more silk, he also hopped to get himself a few venom sacks. He could re-purpose those sacks into pain relief, something he very desperately needed.

In the distance, something howled. 

He froze at the sound, his heart leaping. Wolves? He'd just dispatched a pack, though, and usually they wouldn't attack so soon after such a loss in numbers. But it didn't sound like a wolf howl, he realized upon hearing a second call. He tilted an ear toward it, listening closely. It was far enough away, so he should have a few minutes before-

Something moved behind him.

With a gasp, he whirled, only to find a thick wall of fur standing just inches away. Looking up, he saw a huge, square face, gaping jaws with two tusks sticking up from the bottom, and a flat pigs nose under narrow, predatory, glowing eyes. The creature grunted, hooked hooves reaching like claws, clutching onto his arms with horrible force. The sharp tips pierced flesh, sinking down into the tender, sensitive nerves between elbow and shoulder. Wilson let out a cry, pushed his spear up in between them, and struck forward, his weapon slipped up past the ribs and into a lung, drawing a squeal and making its grip falter. 

Wilson scrambled back, and as he did so, the pig-like-thing lashed out, an arm swinging to strike him. The hoof caught the side of his head, going right through the protective bandages like they were nothing, and snagged at his wound. The flap of cheek came apart, skewered all the way through, and when the creature pulled back, it ripped further. Downward, muscle tearing, until the entirety of his cheek was attached only by the skin of his jaw alone, and then further still. Within moments, the hunk of flesh was severed, leaving his teeth and gums uncovered, his jawbone exposed.

His ears rang as he clutched at the wound with his free hand, rough and calloused fingertips only brushing over the injury like sandpaper. Blood oozed, dripped down his arm and onto his shoulder, hot and wet and sticky.

The crack registered after the pain. The splintered ruin of his spear, half of it still sticking out of the creature's side, the other half kept useless in his hand. 

He turned and took off, fleeing as fast as his legs could take him, hoping that his pursuer was too injured to follow.

Wilson scurried through the trees, half blind with pain, running face first into a couple of them that he simply didn't notice. His arms soon burned with scrapes, but he almost didn't feel them, couldn't feel anything but the gaping hole in his face and a deep instinctive need to put as much space between himself and the cause of such agony as possible.

Something else grabbed him as he darted past. He hadn't noticed it was there, his mind dismissing it as a tree until he was lifted up into the air. Another one of those pig-like-things, a wolf-pig, but this one wasn't injured. Before Wilson could try and escape, try and at least kick the thing or shove what was left of his stick in its glaring eyes, it threw him. The impact with the tree brought out a shriek, and he crumpled, the entire lower part of his body growing numb and unresponsive. His spine shattered where he lay.

Those cruel hooks dragged him upwards, his feet dangling uselessly. The great flat head loomed over him bringing him closer, bringing his head toward its mouth.

"No...no...!"

The tusks too close to his face, but not touching, merely moving close. It was the flat teeth inside that mouth that encircled him, bit down on the top of his head. Not sharp enough to cut, the edges ground against his skin and hair.

"Maxwell! Fuck, Maxwell!" 

He called the name desperately, but he called it in vain. He knew his pleas were heard, and that his cries for mercy were falling on uncaring ears. Maxwell could stop this. He was the one _doing_ it, making it happen, he could stop at any time.

"N-not this, not this, please not this, Maxwell please-"

The pressure dissolved his words into animal shrieks of pain. Teeth not in the slightest way meant for tearing away flesh pressed in on his skull, pressed in hard. The bone creaked in protest, and he could feel it starting to bow, to bend what little give it had in an effort to relent to the force. Without a stick-he must have dropped it when he was thrown- he clawed at the creature's face, tried to dig his fingers into the soft folds inside its mouth, and then reaching for its eyes, not quite able to reach and thus not able to land a blow.

The bone started to crack, weakening, unable to stand up to the crushing force. His screams rose in pitch as agony pulsed through him, until finally, all at once, there was a burst of white light, the world vanishing as his vision flared, the crunch echoing through his ears, and then nothing. 


	5. Spider Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up dear readers: This chapter contains some eye gore. Although it isn't the main focus here, it is mentioned. I know that a lot of people who read gore can still be sensitive to eye injuries, so here's your warning.

The idea that spider silk is stronger than steel is actually a very wide-spread myth. Although, to its credit, it is a myth based in reality.

One would not be able to hold up a thousand pound weight with a spider web as one could with a metal beam. The threads would snap, and whatever might be under that weight would find itself very quickly crushed.

When they say that webbing is stronger than steel, what they're actually referring to is its tensile strength. In other words, silk can take more stress than metal. It stretches, it bends, it offers leeway. It can be pulled out to an amazing distance before it reaches the point where it's in danger of snapping. Add in a sticky quality, sticky to the point of needing a great deal of force to pull away from it once touched, and it becomes a dangerous trap when wrapped around a living thing. 

This was the situation Wilson found himself in. One moment, he'd been in the forest area in search of silk for medical supplies, just in case he needed them in the future, and the next he'd found himself ambushed by a pack of wolves. During the fight, he'd lost track of where he was, and so he'd fallen into one of the many webs in the area. The pack lingered there, trying to decide if it was worth it to get him back. The thick ropes coiled about his back, the ground offering him little traction when he tried to stand up. A wolf reached out, teeth digging into his leg, a squeal leaving him as the animal pierced the skin. He kicked out with his other leg as the wolf pulled, hitting it square in the center of its head, his shoe leaving a gash behind. With a yelp, it let go, recoiling, specks of its blood spattered across his pants and staining the white webbing around him. His leg continued to bleed, dripping down into the ground in slow, even pulses.

Before the pack could make any further efforts, a shadow fell over the lot of them, and they scattered. A low hiss came from behind him, and with his heart sinking in his chest, Wilson looked over his shoulder.

His skin crawled at the sight. The man had never been a fan of spiders, even before the island, and the presence of said arachnids that were as big as his torso didn't help matters. This spider, though, this was worse than an entire group of the little ones. The queen was massive, a great round fang filled head with a web covered body, her offspring crawling in and out of what was essentially a portable nest upon her back. Clear, pure white eyes stared him down as long legs brought her closer to him.

Wilson pulled at the ropes, but the webbing offered give before it would offer freedom. With effort, he could get the thing to stretch and buy himself a few extra seconds, yet it wouldn't release him, and the moment his straining muscles buckled the webbing pulled back, both snapping him once more into place and getting him stuck ever further. He was on his side now more than on his back, his bound arm caught between his own weight and the web underneath.

Disgust coiled in his stomach as he felt her movements next to him, the tips of her hooked forelegs brushing over an arm. She hissed, warm breath against his neck. Kicking out, writhing, somehow he managed to get his feet to dig once more into the ground. 

With everything he had in his body, he pushed forward, felt the creak of the rope, but without the slightest hint that it would separate. A simple nudge of a leg against his calf made the joint bend, made him fall. Almost delicately, she tugged at nearby strands of web, pulled them up and around him. His free arm pinned to his chest, his legs wrapped together. Quick movements that left him bound and immobile.

Only his head, his feet, and one specific spot in his side remained uncovered. With a quick swiping motion, a section of his vest and shirt were both torn away, exposing him.

Just below the rib-cage, right above the upper part of his stomach cavity. His flank rose and fell with his breath, muscles contracting under the skin as she leaned her head closer. He struggled to free his arms, but there was both too much give, and no give at all, leaving him bound and unable to defend himself. Fangs pierced deep into his side, he cried out as heat filled the area, venom injected and quickly spreading outward.

Heat, and then prickling cold, pumped through his veins with every frightened beat of his heart. The trembling and fighting subsided as each nerve shut down. Wilson went still, but he didn't go out. His breath continued, shallow and labored, his eyes wide and frozen, able to see but not able to move. Fingertips twitched, and that was all.

He was left to lay there, any scream that might have been uttered caught in his throat as she bit down harder. Dull needles poked at his flesh, the pressure noticeable, despite the lack of any real pain. This was arguably worse, it would have distracted him, would have blinded him to anything else. Instead, he felt the tugging, heard the wet tear as she pulled out a chunk of his side, then dropped the morsel to the ground with a thunk. With a second bite, she'd opened up a hole big enough to offer her access to his stomach, and the organs stored within.

No sound besides his own frantic breath, no movement that wasn't the queen's own. Horror and nausea coiled within him at the sound of her retching. He knew how spiders ate, he knew exactly what she was doing.

She kept her mouth at his wound, underbelly spasming, jostling him and the web they were on, until a flood of liquid poured from her throat and into his body. He could feel it pool within him, oozing its way deeper with each moment, downwards toward his intestines and up toward his lungs and heart. Acidic enough that, very faintly, he could hear it bubble, his organs and flesh softening under the assault of the queens digestive enzymes. There was little for her to do at that point but wait, wait and absently chew at the edge of the hole she'd made, breaking him apart into smaller pieces so as to make it easier for him to liquefy.

The crawling, creeping acid continued to flow throughout Wilson's body. He wanted to writhe at the sensation, to dig it back out, even if it meant taking some of his insides with it. Her gnawing didn't help, wet and slow bites that reached his ears with ease. 

His breath grew heavier as the fluid hit his lungs, burning away at the air sacks with an icy, prickling chill. Chest rattling with strained gasps, still not enough to block out the sound as the spider apparently decided she'd waited long enough.

She pressed her head into the wound, pulling it further open to do so, and she started to drink. Slurping, swallowing down the parts of him that had dissolved completely into liquid. 

Dizziness spun the world around him, his eyes watered from not having blinked in so long. As she gorged herself on his insides, the acid pool receded, not enough traces left of it lingering on his lungs to get them to stop functioning completely. 

His stomach emptied, she pulled away, haven taken her fill of him. For several seconds, Wilson lay there, staring into space, gaping wound in his side and still unable to move. Insides filled with a thousand needles poking at him, an uncomfortable static that wouldn't relent, wouldn't fade into either true numbness or pain. 

And then they were there, softer hisses that were never the less horrifying, quiet like a serpent cooing at his ear. Pointed legs came into view, one of the smaller spiders rounding on his head, more of them still accumulating by his chest, his legs, tugging him free of the webbing just to expose him to their mouth. They retched, poured their stomach acid onto his skin, to wait until he was soft enough to eat.

The one at his head opened its mouth and shuddered, him left with no way to close his eyes.

It flowed onto his face, blocked out his sight, collected in the inside of his nose and dripped into his open mouth. Taste buds screamed out at the bitter flavor, his rapid breath pulled it down into his throat. 

White broke into darkness, his eyes failed him. All over every inch of his body, the spiders started drinking up their fleshy cocktail, the one at his face pulling apart lips and cheeks and nose. 

Somewhere, something vital in him broke, and all went silent. 


	6. Lurking Shadows

He heard the warped echo of a hiss by his ear as he worked, but Wilson paid it no mind. 

The sound came from a long, coiled, serpent like shadow that was currently wrapped about his arm. It held no weight, he did not feel even the slightest hint of pressure as he plucked a few twigs off of a budding tree for kindling. Within a few moments, it was gone, vanished out of sight, blinked away like it was never there. Which it wasn't, actually. All about him, they came in and out of existence. Some of them were massive beasts, mouth split halfway down their body, teeth thick and sharp, ready to tear any hapless victim apart. Some were insectile, thick bodied with tiny head and legs, crawling about like a swollen tick. And some were like the snake thing that had just clung to him.

They weren't real. He could not touch them. 

Wilson had been dealing with them for the past several days. They came with the chilling of the air, the small patches of frost littered about the island, the changing coats in the wildlife. Winter was here, and the stress from all of this seemed to be taking its toll on him. It was the only explanation he could think of, the only thing that made sense. Hallucinations brought on in response to his prolonged isolation. He'd concluded, after a good hour of swiping at them with his spear, that the best way to deal with this was to ignore them. 

Small creatures made of darkness snapped at his legs as he went by, the bigger ones staring, watching him with unnerving eyes. He went on to the next sapling, and collected more twigs.

It was around mid-day. The sun was high overhead, and because he was near one of several pig villages, it was no surprise to see a group of them wandering about. A smile crossed his face at their little grunts. While they couldn't offer the familiarity of human contact, they could offer companionship never the less.

Abandoning his duty for the moment, he instead went to a bush and grabbed a handful of berries, then approached the group. Food was always a good motivator for them, although meat worked far better than any plant. He offered it to the closest one, watched it take the handful in its hooves and shove the entire thing in its face. As it chewed, the juice dripped out of the corners of its mouth, devouring with wet and greedy noises.

He watched, drops of red staining tooth and gum, creeping down toward its chin. Watched as it leaned down close to him, nudged his forehead with a soft, flat nose.

"Friend! I love friend!" the pig proclaimed.

Wilson blinked, pulled his gaze away, rubbed at his eyes. "Heh. Yeah, friend. Sorry, must have zoned out for a moment there. Long day."

"Friend!" Repeating the word with a softer air, something Wilson took to be an attempt at reassuring, followed up with a hug that was a tad too tight. It was nice, but it didn't last long enough. 

He pat his new friend's side, unable to return the embrace with quite the same level of enthusiasm. He felt a little better though, that rare smile crossing his face again.

Another trip back to the bush, and he returned with a second handful of berries, offering them to another pig. Then another, and another, the bush quickly picked clean. The fifth handful would be the last. All around him, they gathered, full attention focused so long as he had food. Their interest wouldn't keep, he knew this, but in the moment it was good to feel loved. 

One of surrounding group hadn't had a bite yet, he noticed. Not that it wasn't trying, several times it had made an effort to approach him, but the others kept in the way. It was strange to see any pigman tolerate being pushed to the side like that. Whenever food was available, they had no issue with rough housing each other to get to it. Although, thankfully, they seemed to realize that Wilson himself was much more breakable than they were, and made an effort not to shove him about in the same way. They nudged him instead, careful and guarded motions.

Wanting to be fair, he kept the fruit held to his chest, out of the others reach, and picked his way forward. Drew close until he could offer this pig a bite, too.

But close enough that he could offer a bite, he was also close enough to see what the problem was. For a moment, he froze, staring, his mind not quite able to made sense of what he was seeing.   
  
Then he realized, and he knew exactly why it was having difficulty getting to him.

Sticking out of its front, off to the side, right between one of its ribs...was a stick. A spear, a distant part of him corrected. He didn't know how he knew. Maybe it was the similarity between his weapons and the splintered end of wood, but he knew for a fact that it was a spear, and that it had been broken in half and left stuck in the pigs body. 

Someone else on the island? He asked himself this question, asked himself despite the sickening lurch of his stomach. The pig's skin had been trying to heal around the weapon, it had been there for a while. Did someone get into a fight with these guys? He should try to help, try to get it out or at least cut the end off so it could heal properly, but he was kidding himself if he thought that the pig wouldn't attack him should he try. Just as they were responsive to friendship, so too were they responsive to pain. He could, of course, make a painkiller. Spiders lived in this area, too, he could get some venom sacks, re-purpose them, get the pig to eat some so he could help it without the creature hurting him, without the creature grabbing him, without the creature holding him still and biting his head, biting his head and biting and biting until his skull bent under the force, bent and creaked and cracked until-

One of them nudged the top of his head, and he screamed, jerking away, the image all too vivid. His grip on the berries faltered, he dropped them and scrambled away, the pig with the spear just managing to get to the dropped food before the others did.

His heart beat hard, pounding in his chest as he recoiled from the group. They watched him, confusion slipping into their expressions. 

"Friend...?" one of them asked.

"I-I don't-I..."

He didn't understand, he didn't know where this vision came from, clear as a memory, but it couldn't be a memory. He could feel the ghost of pressure around his head, teeth that were dull and made for grinding rather than cutting, he could see the eyes of wolves reflected against gentle faces. They weren't predators, they had never been predators, but those flat noses and those hooves and their great overbearing strength twisted into a vicious nightmare.

Wilson couldn't get the thought to pass, the sensation of his head caved in, the agony that would be. He was safe here, they were friends, he knew they wouldn't hurt him, they were friends, but one of them took a step toward him and he bolted.

Running from the village, running through forest, the image clawing through his head. He ran as if pursued, ran because he could hear feet pounding the ground behind him, ran because he was being chased and they would kill him if they caught him.

Something collided with his back, and he fell, hard into the ground, rocks digging into him from the force. Above him stood a shadowed beast, massive, with a maw that took up half its body and stared at him with unnerving eyes, and as Wilson stared up at it, he knew without a doubt that it could touch him.

It snarled, but the noise he heard wasn't the sound of a growl, but rather whispers. Indiscernible, far away whispers that cooed horrible things, terrors that hovered just out of reach of his comprehension, the suggestion of harm without a description of exactly what harm was meant. He scrambled away, pulled himself back up, turned to run, only for a serpent shadow to lash out, to coil about his neck. Stumbling, clawing at the creature, but frail human hands couldn't pull the thing off him, and he'd long since forgotten any weapon he might have still had on him. 

Something pushed him over, shoved him onto his back, and he looked up to see one of the ticks standing above him, coiled spider-like legs wrapping about his torso, a sharp beak snapping menacingly at him. He cried out, not knowing when the snake left his throat, pushing the thing off and recoiling. They weren't supposed to touch him, they weren't supposed to be real.

He found himself shoved into a tree, bark digging into his cheek, the transition too sudden to make sense of what was happening. Teeth made of shadows, made of darkness there and nothing more, they dug into his sides, dug past his ribs into panicked, heaving lungs, down into the soft organs in his stomach, the mouth that bit him easily spanning his entire torso down to his hips. He scrambled weakly against the tree, but he was caught between an unrelenting force and an unmoving object. The creature pressed him hard, and then rubbed him upward, downward, grinding him against the wooden surface, stripping his face, his chest, his belly of flesh. The taste of copper pricked his mouth as he screamed, and then the tree was gone, he'd been pulled away, left to dangle, writhing, from the shadow's mouth. It bit harder, until he couldn't cry out anymore, his ribs unable to expand, and then it shook him hard. 

He flopped about, helpless, like a rag-doll, until the thing let him go, tossing him across the clearing. 

Everything stopped upon impact with the ground.


	7. Frosty Warmth

The air was still, the afternoon was silent. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was the fact that there was no wind to bite any deeper into him than what the winter chill was already doing. 

He rubbed his hands together, arms tucked in close to himself, exhausted from shivering yet unable to stop. The heatstone he had in his pocket had long since lost its warmth, and he was still so far from camp that the firepit was a dream at best. An uneasy creeping feeling crawled over his skin at the realization that he'd lost track of himself and wandered out too far. 

Wilson kept his spear out, tucked into the crook of an elbow, too cold for his fingers to wrap around the weapon, to hold it out proper.

Restless eyes glanced back and fourth over his surroundings. Trying to calm his nerves. Trying to take deep, slow breaths, to stay calm and keep moving. He'll eventually reach camp. 

For all its discomfort, he thought to himself, the snow was rather nice to look at. An entire forest of white, with tiny partials of ice reflecting the sunlight, making everything area sparkle. The sound of his footsteps crunching rhythmically over the ground was soothing, gave him something to focus on. When he was a child, he used to love winter. He used to go out and build snowmen with his parents. With stones and a carrot, two sticks for arms. No hat, though. 

Childhood seemed so long ago. Longer ago that it felt like it should. But isn't that normal, given everything that had happened?

The estrangement between himself and his parents, his isolation from almost everyone else. His eventual rejection of  work in conventional labs and the choice to do his own work in a cabin, alone, away from people. It seemed easier to avoid others, less stressful, less dangerous, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being alone. He just never found many others that he liked to spend time with. Now that socializing was impossible, he wished there were at least a few others around. Humans preferably. 

Sometimes he found comfort when seeking out the pigmen, but...not so much for the moment. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was just too quiet. 

In the distance, but not far off, he heard a howl.

For a moment, he went still. It seemed far too soon for another wolf attack. Hadn't he just fought them off? They shouldn't have had enough time to regroup yet. 

Not enough time to question it. He made to ready his spear, fingertips scrabbling along the sides, only for the weapon to slip and fall to the ground. His entire body shuddered, muscles unwilling to cooperate. Panic stabbed at his chest, and be bent down. With both hands, he grabbed it, but his grip wasn't tight and he couldn't feel the wood. 

He couldn't fight like this. 

He had to run for it.

(He wasn't going to make it. Not fast enough, not ever fast enough, when was he ever fast enough?)

The crunching of snow mingled with quick gasps of breath. He stumbled onward, away from the howl, bursts of fog appearing before his mouth and falling behind him. There was no warming himself up, and although he realized distantly that he should bring his hands in close to his body to try and ease the numbness before they got there, he couldn't seem to bring himself to let go of the spear.

Footsteps of many massive, four legged beasts found his ears. He was going much slower than he'd imagined he was, they weren't even running to catch up with him. Wilson turned, facing the pack, their fur white as winter and their eyes gleaming.

Dark fur...the last time he saw them was when they'd had dark fur...

(Had it really been that long?)

His head ached, a dull throb, distracting, nagging, but forgotten in the light of paws that pounded against the snow, one of them bounding forward, lunging. Pure white fur and crystal blue eyes that came at him with fangs. He dug his feet into the ground, pointed the spear, but with a simple, quick motion, he was disarmed. The spear tossed from his hands, and then the weight of paws shoved against him.

He fell. Fell hard, but the snow softened his fall, and the rest of the pack set upon him.

A cry broke from his throat as they tore at his clothes, barking, yapping among each other, tails held high in triumph. A couple of them were more interested in the fabric than in him, pushing him over onto his chest and belly to pull his clothes out from under his back, snapping at one another in play. Darting off as a paw pressed into his back and a muzzle pressed into one of his shoulders. Teeth bit in, bit in hard, but he didn't entirely feel the penetration. No, it was the pin and needle shock of _fire_ to contrast the numbing cold, too much warmth far too fast for his nerves to cope.

Wilson screamed, pushed against the snow, trying to shake the thing, but the snow gave, his arms sinking deep into the ice and granting him no purchase.

Another wolf bit his leg, and the one at his shoulder tugged, pulling, pulling until the pressure broke and he heard the wet, fleshy tear. It was almost a relief, getting the source of heat away from him, right up until a thick, unbearably hot tongue lapped at the wound. 

The wolf whined. A soft noise under the chaos of the others. One of them sank their teeth into his upper arm, unable to reach the lower part buried in the snow, and-

White light flared behind his eyes, a shriek of agony as, despite the chill, he very much _felt_ that bite. There is a nerve in the upper arm in humans. It's a thick nerve, incredibly sensitive, a pressure point. And the wolf just tore into it with ease.

Distantly, he felt the weight on his back lift, though in the wake of his fresh injury, he hardly noticed. Thoughtless, he rolled over onto his side, pushing it against the frosty ground in the hopes to make the pain stop, just make it _stop._

Another whine close by, a bark, the movement of a wolf pacing between him and the rest of the pack. Wilson's eyes watered, and as the flare cooled to something bearable enough he could think, his focus came back to them.

What...were they...?

The one that was pacing, the one that knocked him over, turned on him and shoved him onto his back, paw on his chest. A whimper from low in its throat, ears laying back against its head, tail wagging slowly. It's pack mates looked on as it lowered its head to his bare flesh, tongue lapping at his exposed stomach, lips pulled back so its teeth grazed him with each motion. 

He cringed, his own mouth pulling back in a hiss, the warmth of its breath sending pin pricks down deep into his flesh. Pushing again against the snow, but finding no traction, he could only lay there and endure the muzzle pressed into him. Just the one wolf now, the others holding back, until finally, it bit down. His scream coiled up into the air, foggy and wispy until the cold made it disappear into nothing.

Pressure, horrible pressure and the pain of heat against chill set him writhing in the snow, blood coating that pristine white both on the ground and in the creatures fur. It ripped a chunk of him out, and tossed it to the pack. With excited noises, they fought over that scrap of him, tearing it into even smaller pieces while the wolf above reached down to gather another mouthful of flesh.

Opening him up, bit by bit, tearing at his stomach cavity to bear his insides to the world. The deeper the wolf went, the less he felt the needles of heat and the more he felt its fangs as they worked to rip him apart. Each bite thrown to the waiting onlookers, to sate their need of him so they wouldn't force the issue. That ache in his head grew, dizzying, a groan as he shook his head, fingers digging into crimson snow, eyes closed. Everything was so bright, too bright, it didn't feel like he should be able to see.

A pained wail left his mouth with the shudders of his body, tremors forcing him to quake from the cold at his back that in turn aggravated the wounds in his front. 

The bites stopped. His eyes opened, and he looked up. 

Crystal eyes and fur stained red. The wolf licked its lips and lay upon him, ears still back, tail still wagging. A demon clothed in angelic skin.

But they were the same thing, angels and demons. The only difference was that demons had fallen. Both were capable of horrid things, it was a question of whose side they were on. The Devil himself was one an angel, one of the most beautiful angels created. 

Maybe the wolf was Lucifer. 

Hah. Right. That's something his parents would have said. A humorless laugh broke through his cries, made him hurt more, made the white wolf cock its head.

He was a scientist, and Lucifer didn't exist. His parents were _wrong._

...he wished his mother was here. 

The wolf brought him him back to the present with a lurch as it lowered its head into the wound. Not licking, not eating, no, it pressed itself in against his organs and whimpered. Inching deeper, trying to crawl into him, seeking out the heat in his core. 

Everything around him spun, the pain in his head sharpening until he grabbed at it, scrabbling against his skull. With the wolf buried shoulder deep inside of him, the others made their move. They came and they latched onto his limbs, dragging his hands away from his head with teeth wrapped around his arms, while others bit into his hips and thighs. Pulling his pants open so as to get at the fleshy parts, tearing the meat away from bone and drawing yet more of his blood onto the snow.

Wilson cried out, but it was weaker than before, a half hearted noise that drowned in his agony. The blue eyed wolf pushed itself in harder, head nosing in under his ribcage, filling up the space in his chest until there was no room left. Somewhere close to his heart, beating frantically against a muzzle lined with teeth designed to tear.

The pain left him slowly. A dull numbing until he couldn't feel anything but the pressure around him. Even that dissipated along with the fog seeping from his mouth, and the sea of white gave way to nothing. 


	8. Fury

He didn't know why he was awake. Bury eyes blinked open, to take in the glow of the campfire, then glancing about to check the rest of the area. Wilson had never been that heavy of a sleeper, and his time on the island had only made that worse. He sat up, shivering at the chill that cut through him the moment he left the safety of his covers. The first thing he did was grab a fresh heat stone from where it sat next to the burning logs, and stuff it into his pants pocket. 

Grabbing his spear, he set to doing a full patrol of his camp. It might be nothing, maybe he'd just woken up, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The price of being overly cautious was better than that of being careless. The snow wasn't quite so dazzling at night, though it still had that peaceful quality, bringing to mind a cozy warm house and the chatter of a happy family. Pity that it brought freezing cold weather with it.

Nothing seemed to be out of place, so that was a good sign. He was getting ready to head back to bed when the ground rumbled.

A tremor that shook the earth under his feet. Tectonic plates moving against one another. Not exactly safe, but he supposed he could deal with an earthquake, he just needed to avoid the trees and hope for the b-

Under the rumble, he heard something _else._

Something low, low and loud enough that he could feel it in his frame. With a sharp, harsh shudder, the ground spasmed, and he lost his footing. A clatter, the creaking protest of wood, one of the nearby trees separating itself from its roots and flying through the air, vanishing into the dark. Movement above him, he looked up, and if he squinted, he could see the outline of something big. Something _huge,_ towering, bigger than the forest pines.

The monster groaned, the ground shuddered, and Wilson knew that he had to go. 

Struggling to his feet, he managed only a few feet until another tree flew overhead, and the shaking of the earth under him sent him right back to the ground. Pulling himself back up, he pulled a torch out of his pocket, stopping to light the fire so he wouldn't be caught by the night monster.

Then he scurried away, just in time to see a massive pillar of fur and flesh stamp down hard in the place he'd been a moment before, snuffing out the light. 

Unable to help the shriek of fear, he took off, bracing for another quake, just barely managing to keep upright this time. As fast as he could, he darted from his camp, intending to put as much distance between himself and the _thing_ as possible.

The heavy, horrible footsteps followed him. 

An echoing moan encircled the man, fear of being trapped ignited in him in a wave of panic, legs pounding through the snow. Wind brought on by something big moving by him sent his heart pounding, and he knew that he needed to avoid whatever it was at all costs.

But the beast was trailing behind, tracking his movement by the light of his fire, and he couldn't put the fire out, he didn't dare put the fire out, not with the night monster waiting for complete darkness to set upon him. Darkness was death. 

Then came the slap of something against him, a massive wall of fur, wrapping around him with enough strength to take his breath away. The world spun and tilted as he was lifted up, up, impossibly high, and only through instinct did he manage to keep his grip on the torch. The movement stopped, and he heard that groan, combined with hot, wet wind, exhaled by lungs as big as trucks.

His mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. A mouth, filled with sharp teeth, an elongated face, muzzle, curving up into smooth ears that lay against the head, and sharp horns atop the skull. It almost looked like a deer, a huge, predatory deer, with grey fur, shadowed in firelight. One singular eye glared down at him, and he could see his own pale, terrified face reflecting back.

It brought him closer. He waved the torch, trying to use it as a weapon, but the great mouth opened anyway, and although he shoved the flame against the thing's tongue, it didn't seem to do a thing.

Teeth clamped down on his middle, pressure so sudden and so intense that he could feel the assaulted organs pop and break. A shatter of bone, a sickening crunch that shot up his back while his lower body went completely numb.

Not numb. _Not numb._ Missing. Gone. It bit him in half. 

Then there was no air around him, only wet smooth muscle encircling him, pulling him down, down, down until the throat around him vanished and he was in a pouch. The monsters stomach, filled with liquid, acid that burned and seared. 

Wilson writhed helplessly, unable to free himself from the fluid that was melting his skin, his attempts to scream bringing that same fluid into his mouth and down his own throat. 

He bled out quickly, but it wasn't quickly enough. 


	9. Winter Gift

"Long time no see, pal. How've you been holding up?"

Wilson nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice behind him. Up on his feet, back turned to face his captor, fingers reaching for a weapon that was in its chest on the other side of camp. He grit his teeth together, scowling up at the tall man, his glare met with a relaxed, casual smile. Maxwell brought his cigar to his mouth, taking a long drag from it before blowing out smoke in a smooth stream. No heat, no smell, an illusion. Be knew by now that this was just a projection, and attacking it would get him nowhere. The real Maxwell, if he had a physical form, was somewhere else.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Not happy to see me? I'm insulted. I thought we were friends?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. Turning back around, he sat down, pulled his blanket around his shoulders. If he had to deal with this jerk bothering him, he'd do it while warm. "What do you want?" he asked again.

"Do you know what day it is?"

He couldn't feel the man take a seat next to him, but he could see it easily enough. Wilson turned his head away, not looking, a huff leaving him.

These little conversations with the man were never fun. He came only to torment him, nothing else, and yet there was this pang in his chest when he came. Wilson had been alone for too long, and this was the only living thing at least resembling human that he'd seen in years. Despite his closed off posture and the fact that this would end very badly for him, there was a flash of relief. 

"I don't care what day it is." he said. "Does it matter any more?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Some days are special. Like today. Do you know what today is, pal?"

It's been winter for a while now, hasn't it? "I have a feeling you're going to say Christmas."

"Bingo! We have a winner. How'd you guess?"

"Because it's the one holiday I hate the most."

"Now come on, pal, don't be like that. I thought you liked Christmas. Remember your favorite carol? You'd always ask your dad if you could sing it when you went out. _Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the-_ "

Wilson threw a rock at the image, saw it flicker and flash as it reformed, a snarl parting his lips. "Shut _up_ , I'm not in the mood."

Maxwell chuckled, his head cocked to one side, that smile of his lingering. "Did I touch a nerve? Oh, dear. I hope my present can make it up to you."

"I don't want it."

"Aw. At least look at what I brought you."

"I'd rather..."

A rustle at his feet drew his attention.

One eye looked up at him, wide and innocent, surrounded by fluff. A tiny, feathery ball, that flapped its little wings and peeped at him. An adorable bird. He frowned.

"Well?" Maxwell pressed, "Do you like it?"

"It's going to hurt me. Somehow. You wouldn't be so generous otherwise."

"Maybe I just want to help keep you from feeling so lonely all the time."

"I don't think so."

"Maybe I'm giving you a free meal?"

"Yeah. It's probably poisoned." His heart ached to do it, but he nudged the bird away from him with his foot. It rolled onto its back, peeping louder in protest.

Maxwell chuckled. "Yeah. I thought as much. Guess we're doing this the hard way."

That got Wilson's attention, he looked up.

For a moment, he didn't understand what had happened. So quick he'd hardly felt it, reaching up to grasp at his throat and finding nothing but missing flesh and pulsing blood. He gasped, felt hot fluid bubble down into his lungs. The shadow hand hovered about a foot away, claws wrapped around a limp tube. 

It'd torn out his-

Through the shock, he felt himself lifted, flung against a tree, several hands made of cold and dark popping up to grab at each limb. Wilson's struggles were half hearted, more focused on trying to breathe than freeing himself. He wheezed, able to get some traces of air down, but with his pounding heart he was inhaling more blood than anything else. Maxwell stood to his full height, though Wilson himself was held high enough up off the ground that they were face to face. 

He stared at the man, eyes locked on that casual, uncaring expression, watching as he puffed on his cigar. Confusion set in, the question ringing about in his head, his mouth twitching in an attempt to form the word. 

_Why?_

He'd known for a long time that Maxwell liked to torment him, but he'd not expected the man to outright kill him. Not like this. 

_What did he do wrong?_

"It's a bit sad, isn't it, pal? Young man, with a love of science, and a family so attached to their religion they'd rather abandon him than try and accept who he is. Do you remember what it is your mother said to you last? She said you were going to burn in Hell, didn't she?" He blew a breath of nonexistent smoke into Wilson's face. "Funny phrase, 'burning in hell.' People like to think of Hell as a place of unending fire, but it couldn't be. Hell is supposed to be an eternity of torment, and if it was all fire, all the time, you'd eventually grow numb to it. And what would be the point of that?"

One of the claws brushed over his cheek, wiping away the wetness that formed and letting Wilson know he was tearing up. That same hand moved downward, out of sight. He felt two curved fingers slip into the wound, hooking themselves on the tattered remains of his throat.

Maxwell tapped his finger against his cigar to knock some of the ash off. 

"That's not to say that Hell isn't pain. Of course it is. It's just not all physical. It's the feeling of being trapped, of never being able to escape. It's isolation, because there's no sense of companionship. And yes, it's torture, but it's torture without any semblance of a chance that you might be able to get used to it."

The fingers at the bottom of his throat started to drag themselves downward, through his flesh, inching toward his collarbone. One hand pressed its palm into his forehead, keeping him from turning as he kicked and squirmed, his eyes wide and unblinking and thus he was unable to look away from Maxwell as he leaned ever closer. Wilson tried to scream, but only a gurgle came out. The fingers hit the bone, tightened, pulling on it briefly, before sliding over it and creeping toward his stomach.

"Do you ever think, even for a moment, when you aren't stamping your own thoughts down in denial...do you ever think that maybe they were right? When you aren't angry with them or with the very concept of religion, of Christianity, do you ever stop to consider those final words to you?"

Wilson felt his insides pressing against the hole the hand was creating, press and press until it was big enough for them to spill out. He felt them fall and then catch as they reached their limit, dangling out of his body, gaining a little more reach as inch by inch that hand tore its way toward his pelvis.

Maxwell's voice lowered to a whisper. "Do you think you're in Hell, Dr. Higgsbury?"

The question hovered between them. Then the hands vanished, the man before him disappeared, and Wilson was left to fall several feet into a puddle of his own blood and insides.

He awoke, curled up on his side on the log, wincing at the stiffness in his side and in his neck. Sitting up, he rubbed at the sore points, teeth clenching together as he tried to work himself back to being able to move properly. This is why he slept on the ground, and not on his log. Ouch.

A soft peep drew his attention. He looked down to find a tiny, one eyed ball of fluff. A little bird that had managed to find its way into camp. It flapped its wings, flightless, and peeped again. With a small smile, he reached down to pick it up, tucking the shivering thing under his blanket where it was warm. Without any hesitation, it pressed itself into his side, settling down as if into a nest. 

Poor thing. Must have missed the migration, and now it was too cold to go anywhere.

At least it seemed friendly enough. He could care for it until spring. Winter would be over soon, and the world would become livable once more. He just had to wait. 


	10. Springtime Showers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Extreme eye gore in this chapter.

The pain faded, but the damage did not. It took Wilson a long time to realize what situation he was in.

A rustle at his side, the fluff of the tiny bird's feathers brushing against his skin as it nested right at his rib-cage. He could feel it, tiny lungs expanding and contracting out of sync with his own. All around them, the rain continued on. Not heavy, a gentle downpour, pitter pattering against the ground that was uncomfortably soothing. 

An accident, a cliff-edge coupled with wet rocks, a moment of distraction as he searched for berries to feed his friend. Spring had melted the snow, and brought new dangers with it for him to cope with, to replace the risk of dying by frost. For what felt like days, though the sun hadn't gone down, Wilson lay there in the spot he'd fallen.

Agony spiked down his neck, his spine, radiated through his ribs and his shoulders and covered his being in a thoughtless white light, but now it was gone. No pain, just the sound of nature, and his own secluded thoughts.

Wilson knew he was going to die. A broken neck in a place like this wasn't something one could live through.

He looked up at the sky above him, water droplets splashing over his cheeks, dripping down into his hair. It was peaceful, quiet. This was the kind of atmosphere one could fall asleep in. Nothing threatening moved about in the light of day, no creature that might go after him in sight. 

That would last until the sun finally set. He knew what lurked in the shadows, his life placed on a timer, ticking down by the second. 

The fear he'd felt upon that realization came and went in waves, his heart pounding in terror and then slowing with calm resignation. Every now and then, he did his best to move. To twitch. To do anything. Paralysis wasn't always permanent, if he was lucky, very very lucky, this was only temporary. He could set up a rudimentary cast, hope it healed right, or at least to the point he could manage it.

Given his track record, it was safe to say he wasn't going to be lucky.

The sprinkling rain eased, and the clouds parted. Rays of sunshine dried the world around him. It was late afternoon.

From the trees, birds chattered with one another, musical calls that furthered the lighthearted surroundings. He let out a sigh. His eyes closed.

A flutter, and a weight fell upon his chest. He looked up to see one of the crows, its beak tapping about his shirt. It hopped a path over him, a small, curious creature. Wilson almost smiled. It poked at the bird huddled at his side, and was driven away by an aggressive peep.

Then the crow moved higher, up over his chest, claws resting against his collar as that beak tapped over his face. He kept his eyes closed, as well as his mouth, the touch tickling as it went. 

It wasn't until it started pecking that he realized this was a problem.

The hooked beak pinched at his skin, and he shouted in response. It jumped back, but within seconds was once more at his face, and this time the scientist's outcry went ignored. It poked and pinched at him, tugging painfully at loose skin, and he couldn't shake his head to get rid of the thing.

He felt the thing tug at his eyelid, and his stomach dropped, a squeal leaving him as he tried to pull back, to turn away. The pressure eased, and then found purchase anew. Blood welled in the shallow wound, but the bird lacked the strength to actually tear the lid off.

By that time, Wilson had his eyes shut tight. 

A small sting as the bird switched tactics, unable to get through the lid, its beak went for the softer flesh in between his eye and nose. The thin, pink flesh of the tear duct. His lids didn't offer as strong protection there, and with a shove, the beak managed to get a hold of the membrane. Wilson screamed as, with a sharp pull, it ripped the thing out.

The tiny bird peeped, pressed harder into his side, frightened by the noise. The crow didn't stop.

With a weakness pulled apart, it shoved its way through the hole it made, forcing the lid open so it could spear through the eye. 

It did not come out easily. Under his cries, he could feel it pulling and pushing, trying to work the organ free of the socket, blood and other fluids joining what was left of the water and flowing down his cheek. Something popped out of his eye, a yellow substance that stained those feathers, more visible against the black than the crimson.

With a wet squelch, it came out. His eye in its cruel beak, the bird made to fly away...

Only for the nerve that connected the eye to the brain to catch.

He couldn't move, his screams did nothing. It put his eye down, and picked at the nerve. Pain and desperation flooded through him, the sensation crackling through his skull like electricity. Every move forced another flare to run down to his core.

Wilson almost didn't realize that the bird was gone. For several minutes, he lay there, still screaming with the severed nerve laying across his cheek. 

Another weigh settled on his chest, and another. He looked up for a moment, staring at them in terror as they hopped up to him. One beak attacked his exposed socket, while the other went for his other eye. 

Tug, tug, tug, pierce, tug. Both eyes were gone, and the beaks of yet more birds burrowed into the sockets, scraping away at the flesh that was left. 


	11. Savior

Wilson had a bird. He'd known he'd had a bird for a long time. Since winter. It was a small bird.

The creature that slept with him in his camp was not a small bird.

In fact, it was a very large bird, bigger than three of himself stacked one on top of another. Big enough that, standing to its fullest height, it towered over him. Just a very short time ago, short enough that it felt like days, a soft and tiny fluffball had curled in his lap, and everything had been fine. It was only now that Wilson realized what it was.

The tallbird's talons sunk onto the soft flesh of his belly, curling downward and inward, cutting a path through his insides as it held him down. A great, round eye staring at him, an echoed scream piercing the air through its beak. A beast that was once his friend now drew blood out of him.

Wilson did everything he could to get away, and when he couldn't, he curled in on himself in an effort to protect his throat, arms thrown over his face. The sharp point came down, the hard razor edge slicing through both hair and scalp, hard enough that he could hear it grind against his skull. With a snap, the thing closed on his skin. Then it pulled back, peeling the flesh away from his head with a sickening sound. Liquid heat oozed from the wound, dripping down his face and neck. The scientist cried out, trying to flinch away and only succeeding in tearing off more skin with the pressure. His skull exposed to the air, the wound around it burning as it was ripped away.

The pain curved around, skin following the relentless pull around the curve of bone, scalp giving way to his temple, down through toward his cheek, his jaw. He tried to grab at it briefly, but the electric shock of fingers grasping at exposed nerve endings sent him helplessly writhing where he lay.

With a final tug, something gave, the pressure breaking as the last sliver of flesh by his throat gave way, and the tallbird set to trying to swallow the morsel it pulled off of him. It couldn't, the hair was too much. There was very little meat on the inside, too little for that beak to successfully find.

However, there was a great deal of meat still left on its unlucky prey.

Another set of talons dug into his chest, pinning him further, forcing him onto his back. The weight of the monstrous bird cut off his breath, made his ribcage bow, threatening to crack. His efforts to keep his face covered rewarded him with agony stabbing through his arm as the bird clamped onto it.

His free hand moved away, grabbing toward the ground in blind search. When he found something, anything(a rock!), he hurled it upward. Wilson's aim was true, a harsh screech came as the bird scrambled away, releasing him.

Freedom wouldn't last for long. Wilson knew how tenacious they were, the moment it recovered, it would come back. He rolled over, pushed against the ground to his feet, and stumbled away. Only stumbled. Legs trembling, he fell to his knees, looking down to find the gaping hole in his front that was left behind.

He wasn't going anywhere.

Terror pounded through his heart, and he tried to keep moving, to ignore organs dangling out of him, to get away from the tallbird to safety, but he couldn't. All too soon, he found his front shoved into the ground, rocks digging into the hole both in his belly and in the side of his face. He screamed in agony, his own ears popping from the sound, fingers digging into the ground as if he could crawl like this.

"Maxwell!"

That name, as loud as he could manage, voice cracking with desperation.

"Maxwell, please!"

He wasn't expecting an answer, he knew the man was doing this, was making it happen, but the fear drove him to beg. The beak descended, burring into the back of his neck, clamping down on the tendon resting just to the side of the neck bone-

Then it was gone. Not just the beak. Everything as gone, the wounds, the pain, the surrounding forest. Cold weight pressed into his back, and it took him several seconds of disorientation to realize he was laying on something metal. A table.

Eyes opening, blinking into the dark, he found himself in a void. Soft glow coming from under the table he lay upon, letting him see just a few feet away from him. His arms and his legs were strapped down, a fifth strap wrapped around his throat, allowing him to turn his head to look but making it impossible for him to sit up.

"W-what...?"

"Looked like you needed some help, pal."

That easy, casual voice came from the darkness. Ever one for showmanship, Maxwell melted out from those shadows, a cigar in his hand, smoke drifting up and about his head. Wilson shivered as the man looked down on him, his captor completely relaxed, almost apathetic.

"What are you going to do?" Wilson asked. Because there had to be a reason, and given that he was tied down in an empty void, by _this man_ , the chances of this reason meaning anything good for him were very, very small. "...please don't."

"Mmm. Well, if you'd prefer, I could always send you back to where you were before. I'm sure the bird-"

"No! ...no. No, don't...do that."

"Glad I could win you over, pal." The tall man smiled, then took a long, slow puff of his cigar. "Thought we could do something else. A change of pace, if you will. What's going to happen now will look worse than it is. It won't hurt."

The fact that Maxwell felt the need to tell him that wasn't a good sign, either.

"...what are you going to do?" he asked again.

Maxwell let out a little hum. Tapped the side of the cigar, letting the ash fall off into nothing. Wilson was so distracted by that, he didn't notice something was drawing close to him until he felt it brush against his neck. He yelped, looking down, then half jumping out of his skin at the sight of a set of claws. A human hand with pinprick nails made of darkness. As he watched, more formed, digging, coiling into his clothes, and then pulling.

Tearing until his outfit was in shreds, until his chest and stomach were both left exposed.

"Maxwell, please..."

"It's better than the bird, I assure you, pal." He said this with a laugh, amused.

Those same claws dug into his flesh. Dug down deep, piercing him not unlike what he'd just been saved from. He yelped, cringed, and only a moment later realized it hadn't hurt. Chest rising and falling in quick, panicked gasps, he looked back down, watching as they tore him open. Blood welled out of the wounds, dripping down onto the table below, crimson red splashed against darkness black as night. Excess flesh was thrown to the side, out of sight under the table. Fat and meat pulled away, exposing the organs within him.

"I don't understand." he said.

"You don't have to."

His intestines came out. His kidneys, his liver, bladder, they worked their way from his lower stomach upward, emptying the cavity methodically. Wilson started struggling, writhing against the straps, unable to find any give at all.

"If it's any consolation," his captor droned, letting his head tilt to the side. Wilson looked up, and caught a smile. "You won't die this time."

"This-?"

The question cut off with a squeal as the hands coiled about the upper organs. His lungs. His _heart._

Both were removed.

And then the shadows gathered. He lay there, unable to tear his gaze away, though without his heart he should be dead. The shadows formed some sort of smoke, smoke that flooded into the empty cavity.

It was cold, liquid, like nitrogen had just been poured into the wound. Yet, true to Maxwell's word, there was no pain. Only discomfort.

The shadows filled him, crept both upward and downward, infiltrating every inch of space they could find within him. He shivered, the heat draining out of his once warm body, teeth chattering while the skin started to heal, closing the wound and locking the thing within him. 

He could not talk. He had no air with which to speak.

The straps vanished from about his limbs, and he was allowed to stand.

"There we go, pal. Wasn't so bad, was it? Now, come with me. I wouldn't argue the point, your pet bird is still an option."

Maxwell started walking into the dark, and Wilson had no choice but to follow. He tried not to look at his own organs where they lay spattered about the floor as he left. 


	12. To Devour

The darkness seemed to go on forever. Wilson hugged himself, fingers digging into his shoulders as he tried to cope with how close the shadows were to them. To keep them from being plunged completely into the void, there was a light about them coming from an unseen source. It didn't make sense, and right now it didn't have to. The scientist was more worried about the monster that might come after them in the dark than in the how and why the light that kept it at bay existed. 

Logically, the night monster wouldn't be a problem. Maxwell wouldn't have gone to all this trouble just to have him eaten. There had to be a reason.

He could feel it still, writhing around inside of him. Cold that penetrated to his core, cold that made him quake as he walked. Wilson would have asked what was going on, but he had no lungs with which to do so. No heartbeat, no pulse to echo in his head. He shouldn't be alive in this state, but he was, and the man leading him into the unknown was the reason.

Their footsteps sounded hollow, a muted clacking in an impossibly large building. But it wasn't hollow, was it?

He got the horrible feeling that they were being watched. Glowing eyes staring out from the abyss, vanishing just as soon as he looked at them. Afterimages flaring behind his lids, like he'd been staring at the sun.

Maxwell stopped, and so did he. Something whimpered in the dark.

He looked to the tall man, waiting, giving his best frown despite the cold when the other looked down at him. Meeting his gaze and holding himself firm. Was this supposed to scare him...? There was no point, he was already afraid.

The light started to expand. Growing out and away from them. A flurry of white melted into existence, a chest heaving with fear, the sight of four limbs and one throat bound to the floor by straps. The position mimicked the one he'd been in recently, the only thing that was absent was a table.

Wide, blood red eyes darted toward them, a squeal forced past a roll of cloth stuffed into its mouth and wrapped around its head. 

It looked like a pigman, but it was a bunny. It was a bunny, and it was trapped, and it was panicking.

Wilson stared at it a long moment, then returned his gaze to Maxwell once more. The taller man smiled.

"I want you to eat him. Without killing him first, mind you, pal. I want you to eat him alive."

The words hovered in the air. Wilson took a step back, away from him. He glanced back toward the bunnyman and then shook his head. No, no he couldn't. That was horrible.

Maxwell followed him, stepping closer, his expression and stance just as casual as ever. He puffed on the cigar, taking a second step closer when Wilson repeated the action. "No? Don't you get tired of this old, dull routine, Dr. Higgsburry?"

Wilson didn't know what he was talking about. He shook his head, retreating further, and further still, Maxwell following him, until the scientist found himself caught between the edge of light and his captor. A low growl rumbled out behind him, and a chuckle bubbled out before him.

"You seem a tad confused...let me jog your memory."

A second passed, then another, seconds that felt like much longer than they should have, and then...

And then he was on his knees.

Eyes wide, unseeing, thoughts dragged away from the presence with a flash. In that one moment, he saw it all. The weight of a pig's teeth against his cracking skull, fangs of wolves tearing at his flesh, a lapping tongue dragging his insides about while he could do nothing but writhe.

Death, after death. Pain, fear, and the enveloping darkness after, over and over and over. More times than he could count. And then there was this place.

He had been there before. There, with the bunnyman, and Maxwell himself. He'd been there, he'd been given this order, and he'd always refused it. And every time, after refusing, he was sent back to that cycle.

_Do you think you're in Hell, Dr. Higgsburry?_

Tears splashed at the ground, fingers curling into fists. Sobbing without sound, without the weight of air expelling from his lungs.

He couldn't do this. He'd done this so many times already.

"Well, Higgsburry?"

Wilson looked up, blurry gaze on the trapped rabbit, and slowly, he crawled toward it. Next to the squirming, quivering body, lay a knife. It gleamed in the false light. It felt heavy in his hand.

"Remember to keep him alive for as long as you can."

He'd killed it once. Killed it to get it away from Maxwell...killed it to spite the man.

It looked up at him, whimpering, terrified. He swallowed, tears still dripping their way down his face. Wilson raised the knife...and plunged it down.

The rabbit screamed. Crying out through the gag as Wilson dragged the blade toward it's stomach. Pulled it out and stabbed it in again, then a third time, forming the shape of a Y. Hips bucked uselessly, it tossed its head from side to side, mindless struggling against the pain. Bright red blood pouring out to stain the soft white fur.

Hands shaking, he pulled the skin away, opening the animal up, exposing its insides and coating himself in wet heat. It seeped into his skin, deep into his frozen flesh. The shadows within him writhed, making him shudder in disgust.

What was Maxwell making him do? Why had he been trying to get him to do this for so long...?

He used the knife to cut through the remaining muscle and fat, going in a circle from the incision point. The screams echoed through his ears as he worked to free as much of the stomach muscle as he could, knowing that to keep it alive as long as possible, he had to avoid going after the organs first.

He wanted to apologize, as if that could matter at all to the suffering rabbit. He wanted to say he was sorry, to say that he couldn't go through that loop anymore, but even if he could say it, it probably wouldn't make a difference. 

Wilson stuffed the flesh into his mouth, the heat searing at his icy form, the taste of copper and iron coating his tongue. Barley chewing it, he swallowed, and moved on. Pulling away a handful of fat, scraping what was left under the skin away so that he might devour it.

The cries of the rabbit were shrill, its fighting only growing harsher the more he worked, and he knew very well what it was going through.

He started with the intestines. Pushed the long, long ropes of flesh down his throat, working around the veins to keep from making the rabbit bleed out too soon. He bit into the liver, salty tears pricking at is tongue along with the harsher metallic tang. Kidneys, spleen, every bite sending an explosion of fluid into his mouth to be swallowed down. As he gorged himself, he could feel the cold from his insides fade away. He was warm. Hot. 

He was hungry...

The screaming eased into the background, he tore into the animal and fed himself ravenously, using the knife to make up for his less than predatory teeth and his utter lack of claws. 

He worked his way up, toward the chest cavity, to the lungs...

And then, cutting off the rabbits life, he tore out the heart, and stuffed it into himself.

The silence filled the air, blood cooling against his face, his chest, his hands. He was warm, but now he was also numb...

The thing within him writhed, and he found himself clawing at his chest, startled briefly by the pressure, and then falling. He slumped to the ground on his side, dizzy and tired, his thoughts flowing like thick sap from a tree.

No pain. It didn't hurt. It should have.

Something ripped itself from his chest, something pulled itself out of him and vanished from view.

And Wilson was gone.

Maxwell stayed where he was, watching the thing that had crawled out of the scientist dart away, into the darkness, on its way up, and out onto the island, into the night air. 

Somewhere, far away, out of his reach, the monster that Charlie had become screamed.


	13. Begin Again

It happened too fast. Far too fast. Wilson didn't know what happened until it was over. 

He'd built a new portal, hoping to get home, but he'd just ended up on another island. Making his way through _that_ island, he'd ended up on another, and another still, a series of portals, and each brought an increasingly angry Maxwell to try and threaten him away.

Of course Wilson had disobeyed. He'd keep going until the end.

The end was a large room, filled with nothing but darkness, and an old, tall man, sitting upon a chair. The scientist had felt pity, and had tried to release him from that chair, only for Maxwell to dissolve into nothing in front of him, and for him to be dragged into place instead.

He was in charge of the island...but he didn't know how to use it. 

Even if he did know how to use it, he didn't know what he'd want to do with it anyway. For several minutes, he say there, the shock of panic easing, only for a quiet fear to settle in that he might never leave this place now he was there.

It didn't last long.

A woman appeared to him. Sleek, well dressed, but...something was off. Something was cold, her eyes gleamed above her soft smile, and he realized just as she tore him out of the seat that she felt very much like one of the shadows he caught watching him from the dark some nights.

He hit the ground, grass barely enough to soften his fall, the sun bearing down on his back as he lay there.

"...Dr. Higgsbury?"

Wilson jumped, looking to find...a young tall man. Maxwell had the same demeanor, had the same tone and held himself the same way, but he looked much younger than the man he'd seen strapped to the chair.

He sat up, wincing at the pain, his muscles sore from the impact.

A breeze went through the clearing, and they both looked toward the sky.

Soft laughter echoed through the air around them. 


End file.
